You swear you're no happier than me
but Seventeen, at least you have dreams.
Real dreams, good ones,
not just sensible two-year plans
watered down with more prudence.
Seventeen, has no one ever told you
about the finite number of dreams, like eggs,
about dream menopause?
That's why the sleep of the old
is thin as eyelid skin,
all their dreams bled out,
their minds pregnant with memories.
The Elephant Celebes by Max Ernst
Would you rather have dreams or memories? Really think about it -- the concreteness of memories gives a certain kind of satisfaction, but the limitless possibility of dreams is pretty seductive.